


The Inspiration of Sex Dreams

by sunjolras



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Lingerie, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 13:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunjolras/pseuds/sunjolras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly has always looked good in black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Inspiration of Sex Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> here just take it.

Feuilly is used to vivid dreams. He’s always had them, colors crisp and clear as if he’d picked them out himself, and remembers almost every detail. They aren’t normally hard to shake off or forget.

This morning he wakes up and immediately recalls blond hair curling over slim shoulders, a red mouth sucking him off, legs wrapped tightly around his waist. 

 _Enjolras_.

If Combeferre was here, he’d pat his back soothingly and assure him that sex dreams are a normal reaction to someone like Enjolras. Jehan would tease him with a naughty limerick. It’s very unfortunate that he runs into Bahorel on his way to the bathroom.

All he wants to do is take a cold shower and drive the image of Enjolras on his knees out of his mind so Feuilly can actually look him in the face. However, Bahorel is a terrible person and takes Feuilly covering his crotch as an invitation to ask what got him so hot and bothered.

“Come on, we both have dirty little fantasies,” he prods, waggling his eyebrows.

It’s starting to ache, and he finally admits, voice a tad strangled, “Enjolras blew me, alright?”

Feuilly shoves past him and listens to Bahorel laugh and laugh and laugh through the door.

-

Occasionally, the universe is kind of Feuilly.

A week later, he sits down on the couch to eat his off-brand cereal like usual, legs tucked under himself. Bahorel trudges in, dark eyes fixed on the floor, and Feuilly can pick out a faint flush of color high on his cheeks. He puts his bowl down and Bahorel winces.

“So, what was it?” Feuilly asks, getting to his feet.

His friend avoids his gaze and tries to move around him. Thus, it’s only logical for Feuilly to tackle him, grinning smugly. Bahorel’s arm hits the table and it creaks ominously. They wrestle for a few minutes, grunting and grabbing at each other to gain the upper hand. 

“Tell me!”

“Fuck you!”

Feuilly, by some flexible, underhanded feat, manages to simultaneously keep Bahorel on the ground and roughly twist his nipple. He lets out a roar that would scare Feuilly if he was a lesser man. 

“Stockings! Lacy fucking stockings!” Bahorel yells and twists in his grip.

Humming in amusement, Feuilly ceases his attack. “Kinky.”

Then Bahorel elbows him in the stomach and his cheek is violently ground into the carpet. He accepts his fate, but the rug burn still hurts like a motherfucker.

His boss knows better than ask about the band aids on his forehead and chin.

-

The trip is for Jehan, who claims that he absolutely needs a light pink thong and will not discuss it any further. While Combeferre is dragged around the lingerie shop to help Jehan decide, Feuilly tries to keep himself from lighting a cigarette. 

He inspects latex bodysuits and silky chemises, head tilted curiously. He’s never had much interest in dressing up, though he can definitely see the appeal. A flash of black lace catches his eye and he pauses in his wandering.

They’re just black stockings, a matching garter belt and bralet attached, simple and unadorned apart from a thin lace trim. He reaches out and hesitantly touches. The material is good quality, soft on his skin.

“You would look perfect in that!”

Feuilly whips around, pulse jumping in his throat, and very nearly punches Jehan in the face. Instead, he takes a slow breath and rubs at his chest. Jehan begins to fuss, murmuring sincere apologies for startling him until Feuilly shakes his head fondly.

“Just skittish, that’s all,” he says, glancing over Jehan’s shoulder.

Combeferre is waiting patiently by the counter and holding quite a bit more than one thong. Feuilly picks out a bright cherry pattern somewhere in the pile.

“These were made for you,” Jehan chirps, pointing at the things Feuilly had been eyeing. “Especially with your freckles.”

Feuilly shrugs, knowing without checking that the price tag is probably more his entire monthly budget. Tsking, Jehan plucks the clothing off of the display and adds it to his own purchases.

“No, Jehan, you don’t have to do that,” Feuilly argues.

Jehan waves a dismissive hand, smiling serenely. “Hush. It is a privilege to enable your sexual exploration via nice lingerie.”

Any further objections are silenced by Combeferre silently widening his eyes at Feuilly, a plea to please for the love god shut up and go with it. Feuilly knows what battles to fight and ends up carrying an unnecessarily fancy plastic bag home. 

Bahorel is out doing whatever he does; not going to class, arguing with his fists, etc. Feuilly uses the relative quiet to gather his courage and strip down in the middle of his room. As soon as he’s naked and shivering, he realizes that he has absolutely no idea how garter belts work.

Feuilly calls Courfeyrac and ignores how pleased he sounds.

-

He doesn’t have to wait long.

Bahorel comes stomping in like a hurricane, shucking off his garishly embellished jacket, and stops in his tracks at the sight of Feuilly in their living room. He’s sitting there, trying not to fidget with the lace at the tops of his stockings, and all Bahorel can do is stare at him. 

“You gonna do something or what, shithead?” Feuilly asks, like his face isn’t six shades of red.

He stands up in one smooth movement and he can see Bahorel’s fists clench. Just when he’s about to turn tail and retreat to soothe his wounded pride, Bahorel moves, suddenly standing much, much closer. He lifts a hand and runs his thumb over Feuilly’s nipple, the satin bralet a tantalizing friction between them. It takes a lot of effort to stay still as his fingers slide lower, brushing over his stomach, skating over his sharp hipbones. Because Bahorel is an asshole, he snaps the elastic of the sheer briefs, and that gets Feuilly to jump.

“I can always leave,” he warns, scowling.

Raising an eyebrow, Bahorel cups him through the fabric and squeezes lightly. Feuilly lets out a breathy mewl, hips jerking forward without a thought.

“What was that again?”

Despite the fact that he’s going slightly out of his mind at every tiny drag of his panties, Feuilly manages to muster an impressively scathing glare and walk away, nodding toward the bedroom. Bahorel appreciates the way Feuilly’s ass looks framed by the garter straps and gives it a firm smack before settling on the edge of the bed.

Feuilly reaches for the clasp of his bra, but Bahorel shakes his head and tugs him over to straddle his hips.

“Leave it on,” he murmurs, biting Feuilly’s jaw sharply.

Bahorel stays fully clothed as he works him open, denim catching on thin nylon stretched over tense thighs when he’s fully seated in Bahorel’s lap. Feuilly fists his hands in the front of his shirt and doesn’t apologize after he comes all over it, teeth scraping down Bahorel’s neck hard enough to bruise.

The garments are carefully cleaned and put away in Feuilly’s dresser, and soon another set, white and ruffled, joins them.

-

[Collab. Art](http://sunshineprouvaire.tumblr.com/post/48005119301/liz-and-i-decided-to-do-a-thing-where-she-writes)


End file.
